by Lisa Jackson
After walking into the kitchen, she stared through the window and told herself to relax. Her gaze followed the path broken in the snow as it led to the outbuildings.
There was another path as well, smaller, going around the side of the house and almost obscured by the new snow.
Odd.
But then Tilly and Ed had been here with Eli and Sarge. Perhaps one of them had taken Sarge outside . . . ? Tilly, probably, since the path was thin and she couldn’t imagine Ed’s size twelves tamping down the snow like that.
Except, of course, the new-fallen snow changed the footprints, softened them, and made them appear smaller.
Huh.
She told herself not to worry, not to let the recent accidents, her own house being compromised, or her supposed poisoning get the better of her. She was safe. Here. With Trace.
And yet the feeling that something wasn’t right here hung with her. “Just a new place,” she whispered, wishing one of the dogs had stayed in the house with Eli and her. With one last look at the fast-disappearing path, she returned to the living room, where the crackling fire dispelled some of her unease. Curling up on the couch again, she opened up her laptop and did a little more research on Gerald Johnson, his company, and his family.
Your family.
“Never,” she said aloud as the lights flickered once and a branch began beating against the side of the house like it was trying to get inside.
Again, she glanced at the back door, wishing Trace would return. Other noises assailed her: timbers creaking, the common sounds of an old house settling, the squeak and soughing of tree limbs rubbing against each other. Telling herself she was letting her nerves get the better of her, she fought a ridiculous panic attack and turned her attention away from the dark night beyond. She Googled everyone in the Johnson family and remembered her own impressions of Gerald and his children.
Her father was an enigma. Strong. Smart. Educated. Hard-edged. A man who solved problems and faced adversity.
Ruthless?
Probably.
As for his firstborn, Clarissa, she was a little more transparent, or at least it seemed so on first look. Bold and arrogant, abrasive and downright bitchy, she was married to the Thor-like Lance. Two peas in a pod. Kacey wondered if either one of them had an inkling about a sense of humor. And yet they had children. Kacey had trouble imagining anyone less motherly than Clarissa Johnson Werner, but she’d only seen her agitated. She couldn’t help but think there was something going on with Clarissa, her snarly exterior hiding some darker emotion.
Then there was Judd, next in line, quieter, but the kind of guy that made you think of the old “still waters run deep” adage. Who knew what he was thinking or what he was capable of? He was a lawyer, as was Thane, but Judd was definitely the more uptight, by-the-book corporate type and, from what she had read about him, was divorced from a wife who had moved to Portland. No kids.
Thane was a mystery. Quiet. Friendlier than the rest, slightly amused. The black sheep who hadn’t quite run off. Almost a rogue, but not quite. The one person in the group who wouldn’t settle for being under his father’s thumb. At least not completely. Never married. Of all her half siblings the one she might be able to talk to. The least standoffish. She made a note.
As for the twins, she didn’t know where she stood with them. Cameron who had smoothed his hair on more than one occasion in the meeting had been more openly antagonistic toward her. However, Colt hadn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy, either. The smiles he’d offered seemed cold, as if he were amused by a private joke at her expense. Or had she imagined that?
Neither twin had ever been married, at least not to her knowledge, but she knew very little about them other than that they were salesmen for their father’s company and that their jobs took them all over the country and into Canada.
Was it possible they were the culprits? Perhaps working in tandem? One offering up alibis for the other while their jobs provided the perfect cover as they flew all over the country. Could they both be so perverted and twisted?
“Unlikely,” she said under her breath, but told herself to dig a little deeper, find a way to check their business trips and how they could have coincided with other unexplained accidents to unfortunate women who may have been born with the aid of a fertility clinic in Helena, Montana.
“That’s nuts,” she told herself, and turned her attention to Robert Lindley, the oddball, the one half sibling most like her. He was older than she, and again, she’d found no record of his marriage. Granted, she hadn’t had time to dig deeply into any of their lives, but a marriage should have been easily discovered, a matter of public record. Robert, too, had been antagonistic; she’d felt his distrust of her from the second he’d walked into the boardroom.
Did he still feel as if he were an outcast, even though he was a part of the family, at least as far as the company went?
But the ones she’d met weren’t all of Gerald Johnson’s children. Two of his three daughters had died from separate accidents: Aggie, as a child; Kathleen, when she was still in college.
Kacey wondered about them.
Accident victims.
Was there such a thing when it came to Gerald Johnson’s female progeny?
But Clarissa. She’s survived. Apparently her father’s right-hand woman. How does that make any sense?
“It doesn’t,” she said aloud as the wind whipped around the corners of the house and the lights flickered again. Her skin crawled and she had to fight the feeling that someone, or something was outside, something malicious, something waiting and watching.
The storm was a bitch! Rattling the old windowpanes, whistling through the rafters of the barn, causing the cattle to low and move restlessly. The dogs, too, were edgy, whining at the noise. Bonzi, for appearing tough, was really a wimp, it seemed.
“Hang in there,” he told all the animals and to the rescue dog, “We’ll be fine.”
But Bonzi’s tail hung low as another blast of wind shook the building. Trace ignored him and began rewrapping some exposed pipes that were freezing. It would take some time, but he wanted to ensure that the cattle continued getting water and that the pipe wouldn’t burst.
The lights flickered once, then again ... Great, he thought as he hadn’t yet even broken a path to the horses in the stable a few yards away. The last thing he needed was to lose electricity.
Bonzi cowered, whining through his nose, but Trace kept on insulating the pipes as best he could.
Hopefully things would be better when he reached the stable.
So they separated.
How Perfect.
From his hiding spot, night goggles allowing him to view the snowy landscape, he watched the house, had seen the old people leave. His eyes followed O’Halleran as he trudged to the barn with both dogs in tow. Aside from the kid, Acacia was alone in the house.
And he could deal with the boy.
Things were finally falling together after the scare earlier today, and the feeling that he was being followed again. He’d seen the BMW that he’d thought he’d caught tailing him the other night. He’d told himself he was imagining things, letting his paranoia rule, but again, today, earlier, he could have sworn someone was following him.
Pull yourself together! Do you see anyone out here? Hear them? Has there been any glimpse of a damned BMW for hours?
No!
You’re just jittery because tonight’s the night. It’s all come down to this. Time for revenge, now, isn’t it? Soon, oh, so soon, Acacia’s life will be in your hands.
Despite the cold and the wind rattling the icy branches of the surrounding trees, he felt his cock twitch at the mental image of her lying beneath him, quivering in fear, eyes trained on the knife that he would use to slit her perfect throat ...
No! That’s not how it’s going down. This is not sexual and there can be no knife. It has to look like an accident. Just as you did with all the others. Don’t stop now. Stick to the plan . . . she’s one of the
m, those progeny of Gerald Johnson who are mentally insufficient, even deranged. They all are . . . even Clarissa, probably. She, too, cannot be spared even though she’s an ally. Eventually, she will have to die . . . But now, concentrate. First you have to incapacitate her, then you have to take out O’Halleran, get him back to the house and stage the scene. Make it look like murder/suicide and then burn the house to the ground. By the time the volunteer fire department arrives, it will be much too late.
Training his gaze on the windows and the light beyond the panes, he caught glimpses of her walking through the house. Each time he saw her, he felt his blood heat in anticipation, knew he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Now, Acacia was in the kitchen and looking through the window, straight at him. His heart stopped for just an instant.
Then he realized she couldn’t see him through the shroud of snow, didn’t understand that he was observing her closely while plotting the details of her death. He mentally chastised himself. Do not unravel. Do not fall victim to your own paranoia! You have a mission. Do not be distracted by lust or fear. . . . Goddamnit, be strong!
Sucking air in through his teeth, feeling the cold burn through his lungs, he forced his thoughts clear. To center. Then he saw her again, peering through the night and a new power overtook him. It was as if he could talk to her through his mind
You asked for this, bitch. You wanted to find me. . . . He felt a smile twist the corners of his lips as he eyed the farmhouse with its gabled roof. Most of the windows were darkened, especially those on the second floor. Shifting his rifle from one gloved hand to the other, he realized exactly how he would deal with her.
Another gust of bone-rattling wind cut through him and the lights in the house blinked nervously.
Again, she looked his way, her beautiful face drawn into an expression of worry. Oh, if she only knew. . . .
Get ready, Acacia, he thought grimly, heading through the snow toward the front of the house, where the porch was dark. I’m coming.
Where the hell was Trace? Just how long did it take to check on horses and cattle that Ed had already fed?
“Come on,” she said and thought about putting on her coat and boots and plowing her way to the outbuildings. But she didn’t want to leave Eli alone. What if he woke up again and called for his mother?
Feeling like an idiot, she decided to call Trace on his cell, and using her own phone, punched out his number and waited.
A phone rang inside the kitchen, and she jumped. Then realized the cell belonged to Trace. He’d left his damned phone on the counter.
He’s fine! He has to be!
The lights shivered once more; and this time Kacey was spurred into action.
Remembering Ed’s advice, she drew water in the tub of the bathroom downstairs, found buckets and a flashlight in the kitchen. The fire was already blazing, wood stacked near the hearth; as she returned to the living room.
Klunk!
A noise overhead. From the floor above.
“Eli?” she called, her heart hammering. She started for the stairs, had taken two steps when the lights failed. Darkness fell in an instant, only the fire offering a flickering red-gold illumination that cast the room in shifting, uneasy shadows.
She hadn’t been aware of the furnace rumbling or the refrigerator humming, but now there was total silence, a frightening quietude broken only by the howl of the wind and that same damned branch beating against the house. Waiting, she hoped to hear a generator switch on, prayed the lights would flicker and hold, the furnace would churn to life.
Nothing.
Now what?
She felt cold as death, as if the wind outside were blowing through the bones of this old house. Her skin crawled as she thought of all the things that could go wrong in the dark, without heat, without light, with a homicidal maniac on the loose....
“Stop,” she told herself sternly.
Fumbling her way to the kitchen, where she’d left the flashlight, she banged her knee once, bit back a curse, then automatically groped for the light switch before stopping herself, then finding the flashlight on the counter. She pushed the button; and a weak yellowish light signaled that the batteries inside were nearly gone.
Eli.
He would know where more batteries were; and besides, she needed to haul him and his blankets downstairs so they could stay close to the fire.
Glancing outside to the darkness, where no exterior lights offered the slightest illumination, she said, “Come on, Trace!” The lights had gone off in the barn and stable, too. . . . Surely he’d return ASAP.
In the meantime . . .
Following the week, thin light from the flashlight, she mounted the stairs. Darkness seemed to sink into her from every corner of this old, unfamiliar house. She rounded the corner of the landing and heard another thud against the house.
What the hell was that?
Eli?
Swallowing back her fear, she thundered up the remaining stairs, swung around the newel post in the hallway, and pushed open the door to Eli’s room.
The bed was empty; sheets and blankets had slithered onto the floor. “Eli!” she cried, searching crazily, swinging the beam of her flashlight through the room. “Eli!” She threw open the closet door and found nothing but clothes, then ran through the bathroom and Trace’s room, the flashlight growing weaker but giving up no trace of the boy. “Eli!” Oh, God, oh, God! Where was he?
Now in a full-blown panic, Kacey was sweating despite the cold, fear clawing at her throat. She looked through the third bedroom, around the draped furniture, under the hems, through the maze of boxes and pictures stacked around the bed and mattress, pushed up against the wall. “Eli!” she called and then, thinking he might be as frightened as she was, said, “It’s Kacey, honey. Where are you?”
Oh, sweet Jesus, she’d lost him!
CHAPTER 34
Pescoli drove.
She didn’t care that Missoula was out of their jurisdiction.
She didn’t give a rat’s ass that the FBI was stepping in.
She wanted answers and she wanted them now.
So, while Alvarez was on the phone with one of their junior detectives who’d been left in charge of turning Gerald Johnson’s life inside out, Pescoli squinted through the windshield where the wipers were having trouble keeping up with the relentless snow falling from the night sky.
It was times like these she craved a cigarette and if Alvarez weren’t such a health nut, Pescoli, who’d learned her glove box stash of Marlboro Lights was totally depleted, might break down and stop at a local convenience store for a pack of smokes and a super-sized cup of Diet Coke. That’s the combo she needed to keep her fired up.
Gerald Johnson lived in a gated community, part of a resort that flanked a private golf club where the buy-in was more than her house was worth and the dues would eat up more than a chunk of her salary. She only hoped the bastard was home.
Armed with Kacey Lambert’s theories and Alvarez’s sketchy proof, she and her partner were going to see the old man, shake him up. Though she’d come to the party late, disbelieving Alvarez’s suspicions that the victims could be related by blood, Pescoli was now on board. She’d finally bought into the wild idea that women were being killed because they were 727’s sperm bank daughters. Why, was another matter. Who, the most critical piece of all.
The weather was a bitch, but then, this was Montana in the winter. What did she expect?
“. . . okay, got it,” Alvarez said into her cell as the radio crackled with news of a robbery and fleeing suspect on Main Street. “Keep looking. Anything you can find on Johnson, his kids, and the clinic ... call me back.” She clicked off and glanced at Pescoli, her face tense as oncoming headlights flooded the interior with glaring light for a few seconds. “Leona’s on it.” Leona Randolph was a junior detective who had recently joined the department. Highly skilled in all things technical, Leona had the command of the Internet that amazed Pescoli. Though the girl was only a few years ol
der than Jeremy, Leona was light-years ahead of him in maturity, ambition and direction. Her son could take a lesson!
“I think the turn-off is about a mile ahead,” Alvarez said as the snow blew down in sheets, making visibility almost an impossibility. Pescoli slowed out of necessity. The traffic had been reduced to a crawl. Now, when she felt time was of the essence, that the killer was escalating, that the clock was ticking, she was stymied by the blizzard.
“There’s the private road to Cougar Springs,” Alvarez said, pointing, just as the beams of Pescoli’s headlights washed up against a wide turn.
They plowed through the snow and up a road that wound through the sparse timber of a mountain resort and past a gatehouse where Pescoli flashed a badge at the guard and mentioned Gerald Johnson’s name. Once the gate swung open, she put the Jeep into a lower gear and drove it up the steep, winding lane. A quarter of a mile in they passed a three-storied glass and cedar lodge, warm lights glowing from windows that climbed to the sharply pitched, snow-covered roof. Tonight only a few cars, unidentifiable as they were half-buried in the snow, were parked in the lot.
Still upward they drove past forested lots with huge, rambling houses tucked into the hillside. Many of them, the summer homes, were dark, only a few showed warm patches of light blazing from windows—those owned by people who lived here year-round or spent their holidays on the nearby ski trails.
“Rough life,” Pescoli muttered.
“Boring life,” Alvarez added.
“I might be tempted to take a year or two of ‘boredom’ like this.”
“Oh, sure. You’d be climbing the walls inside of a week. Back on the force within two.” She slid a look at her partner. “Who are you trying to kid? Me? Or yourself?”
“Both of us, maybe,” she muttered.
“What’s eating you?”
“My kids. What else?” She would have liked to blame her pent-up anger on the case, and that was part of it, of course, but with Jeremy, who seemed hell-bent on being a big, fat zero, and Bianca, whose grades were slipping and was turning increasingly boy crazy, was the real source of her angst. And it didn’t help that she was getting pressure from Santana.
